Immortal Destinations
by Fionavar108
Summary: The fight against Skynet doesn't just involve California. A now Immortal John Connor and his allies go on the road. Follows the earlier story, "Forever." Duncan Macleod and Amanda Darrieux will be appearing, but not in the first chapter.
1. Chicago

_Disclaimer: All characters except Gil Macgaw are not mine. Follows my earlier story "Forever." _

Cameron thought Chicago was a truly well designed city. Perfectly flat, with almost all streets laid out and numbered in a grid system: easy to navigate, even for the directionally challenged. Or so she thought.

"What are you doing? Don't turn here, keep going straight!" John called from the back seat.

Derek took one hand off the wheel to massage his stiff neck. "The University's on East 59th Street," he responded.

"Yeah, but 59th has just the one lane, and tons of stoplights and stop signs," John replied wriggling slightly as he recalled the supersized soda he'd had for lunch. "It'll take us forever to get there!"

"John is correct," Cameron confirmed after a pause. "If you take Garfield Boulevard instead, we will arrive on campus 15 minutes sooner."

"And I can find a damn bathroom!" added John.

"Fine," grumbled Derek, knowing better than to argue with Cameron when it came to navigation. As the light changed, he drove straight through the intersection.

* * *

_30 minutes later_

"Much, much better," sighed John in relief as he scooted into a cramped graffiti-encrusted wooden booth next to Cameron. "Man, I needed that."

"Did you wash your hands?"  
"Did you wash your hands?"

John looked at his mother and his girlfriend, rolling his eyes. "Yes, OK? Geez, you forget just one time …"

"Cleanliness is important for optimal health," Cameron informed him

"Besides," added Derek as he looked up from his menu. "In the future, running water's scarce. You'd be surprised how much you miss something as simple as being able to wash your hands before dinner. Or dinner," he noted.

"Way to bring the room down, Derek," muttered John as he scanned the menu himself. They'd come to the crowded, noisy restaurant after asking a random student on the street for a recommendation. Barely looking up from his book, he replied, "The Med. Two streets that way." Clearly it was a popular choice for students still young enough to be conscious of their budget, but not old enough to require rigorous monitoring of their cholesterol levels.

"The vertical elevation of this room has not changed since we entered it," Cameron said, looking at John strangely.

"He means that Derek said something depressing," Sarah explained. Frowning, she eyed the glass of ice water in front of her dubiously. Not just the walls and tables, but the chairs, plates and glasses were coated with the scrawls of University of Chicago's brightest—though not always sober—minds.

"Sex is God," her glass helpfully told her, while her bread plate had an incomprehensible series of equations on it, ending with the letters "QED."

"The burgers look good," John noted, eyeing a waitress carrying a tray full of them to a neighboring table. "Let's just get something and we'll go find our guy." He motioned the waitress over.

After they'd all placed their orders, Derek voiced the key problem. "This Macgaw guy … his work's already out there. It's been published, seen, cached on the Internet. What is it that we think we can do here to keep things contained?"

Last month, one of the many customized Web bots John designed to scour the world looking for possible news about Skynet precursors had pinged. Gil Macgaw, noted professor at the University of Chicago, had published an academic treatise: "The real-time paradigm: the problem with AI implementation in open environment gaming,." Likely it was of interest only to theoretical computer scientists, game designers—and anyone with an interest in preventing the development of a misanthropic machine intelligence destined to initiate a worldwide nuclear holocaust.

John and Cameron wanted to meet the man.

John noisily slurped his malted milkshake—extra malt—before he responded, thinking out loud as much as providing an answer. "The short answer is, nothing. I think what we're here to do is recruit. The Resistance won't be won by firepower alone. We have to understand how Skynet thinks. This Gil guy … he's like a supergenius. Doctorates in mathematics, computer science, linguistics, and biochemistry. And fluent in Chinese, French, and ancient Greek, of all things. Scuttlebutt is that he might just become the youngest Fields Medalist in history.

"Think of what a guy like that could do for the Resistance—and for rebuilding the world if we win!" he said excitedly.

"When," Cameron said.

"I don't know when, Cam, you'd know better than that," he said.

"No. When we win. Not if," she said. John felt his ego soar at her matter-of-fact tone. He didn't understand her complete faith in him, but it sure made him feel good about himself to know that she did.

"Okay. When we win," he agreed absently. "I'll take your word for it. The point is, Macgaw the AI researcher can help us understand how Skynet thinks. The biochemist can show us how to grow food even in damaged soil conditions. And if we get his brain on our side now, who knows what ideas he might come up with? All we have to do is convince him to join us."

"You'll convince him," Cameron said proudly. "I know you will."

* * *

As it turned out, Dr. Magaw was away on a conference, so it was two days before he got back into town and his secretary would book an appointment to see him. She assumed merely that he and Cameron were yet another two College students who had fallen behind on their coursework and needed to beg for an extension.

In the meantime_,_ mindful of Amanda's offhand advice to see what there was of the world, just in case it would disappear in the next few years, John and Cameron explored the joys of the Windy City.

John had spent all his life in Southern California, and the first thing he realized about Chicago was that it was cold. Not freezingly so, but definitely colder than the sunshine and warmth he was used to.

He also noticed that it was undeniably flat, and that people in Chicago tended to be … larger. Not necessarily obese, but the men tended to be built like refrigerators and even the young, pretty girls were … thicker, even when they were clearly toned and athletic. Dimly he remembered something about Chicago being called the city of big shoulders.

Cameron didn't notice. The humans were sized within normal parameters as far as she was concerned. She did notice, however, that the buildings were more distinctive and featured a broader variety in the designs. Somehow, she liked them. She liked the restored Art Deco masterpieces, the functional modern skyscrapers with their cold steel girders openly showing. She even liked the gray stone gothic buildings that made up the campus of the University of Chicago, and the everpresent gargoyles around campus that John had told her were supposed to ward off evil.

The four also took some time to walk around and eat, stuffing themselves with deep dish pizza at Gino's East—a restaurant that Sarah was dismayed to find also believed in allowing graffiti on the dishes, glasses, walls and tables. Nevertheless, the pizza was decadent, hearty, heavy … and ridiculously good. Walking outside afterward, she stopped as she heard Derek's plea: "Uh, hold on a sec," he gasped.

Sarah turned and looked at him. "Oh for god's sake, Derek," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Nobody told you to finish that fifth piece. That's just disgusting. You don't see any of us stuffing ourselves to the point of illness, do you?"

"BRAAAAP!"

Sarah turned at the sudden, explosive noise and John looked slightly sheepish. "Um, excuse me?" he offered. He, too, was red and sweaty, with his normally flat stomach distended grossly outward.

"Men!" she snarled, walking away, Cameron looking back and forth between Sarah and John.

"That belch sounded almost exactly like a burst of automatic gunfire," Cameron said admiringly. "This is a skill you should perfect. It could prove useful."

John blushed.

The next morning, Sarah made them all do a run along the Lake, plotting a course twice as long as usual to work off the enormous caloric surplus they'd accumulated the day before. Though John could still feel Gino's finest sitting in his stomach, he still enjoyed the run. He got to see the cross-section of the city biking, running, and cycling amidst the gentle waves of Lake Michigan—seeing old men playing chess near the Oak Street beach, just a short distance away from the strolling trophy wives and college students, running past food vendors near Grant Park, past the tourists by the new metallic bean statue, past the Mexican immigrants grilling delicious food as they headed back south.

Inwardly, he sighed. Though he longed for this kind of life, what he had always thought of as normalcy, he saw now that there was no such thing as a normal life—just life. And though there would always be challenges ahead, he was thankful for what he got to enjoy and would, if he was lucky, continue to enjoy long after these people were gone.

* * *

Macgaw was due back that day, and per standard procedure, John had made an appointment during the professor's office hours for two days later. In the meantime, they split into teams of two—Sarah and Derek shadowing the researcher while John and Cameron shadowed Sarah and Derek to make sure there weren't any other agents—Skynet or otherwise—tracking them or the professor.

After two days of watching him teach, eat student union-sold shawerma, drink copious cups of coffee, and devour an astonishingly tall array of periodicals, journals, research papers, and novels, they concluded that he was clear, and it was safe for John and Cameron to keep their appointment.

* * *

"No," the skinny professor said quietly.

"No?" repeated John. "Perhaps I need to show you proof of what I just told you …"

"That won't be necessary," Macgaw replied. "I assume your girlfriend here, Cameron, would demonstrate some aspect of her cyborg capabilities, such as enhanced strength or the ability to process large amounts of data quickly and intelligently."

At John's and Cameron's surprised looks, he explained. "Cameron emulates a human very well, but a few things give her away. Her pronunciation is a little too precisely calibrated to the neutral Oklahoma accent—even a news anchor can't duplicate that. Her skin is just a little too flawless, or haven't you noticed the pimples on the hygienically challenged students around here? And I can't help but notice that for the past hour, she hasn't once played with her hair. Every woman in the U.S. touches her hair unconsciously at least once in a while.

"It's nothing that anyone would ever notice," he assured Cameron, "but once you start talking about cyborgs as a real possibility, the signs are there if you're observant enough."

"So," John said guardedly. "You believe that Skynet is a real threat in the future."

"Yes."

"That it will be malevolent and start a massive holocaust that leads in turn to massive genocide."

"Yes."

"But you're unwilling to help?"

"I didn't say I was unwilling to help. I just don't believe you need to prepare to go to war as if that's the only option," he said.

"In the future, did anybody ever try to ascertain why Skynet decided humans were a threat?" he asked Cameron.

"Nobody understands Skynet's motives. Not even the robot slaves it creates," Cameron replied.

"War should be the last option," Macgaw said, a lecture-hall tone creeping into his voice. "Perhaps the solution to the problem of Judgment Day is as simple as …"

John rolled his eyes. "Typical," he muttered, as he watched Cameron suddenly tense up in response to a series of crashes and screams outside the door.

Gunshots rang out, and instinctively, John hit the floor, then reached up and grabbed Macgaw by the collar to yank him down.

The academic had clearly never heard the sound of a gun firing, and he tried to get up to open the door to see what the commotion was about. Cameron responded by throwing her heavy body on top of both John and Macgaw, causing the latter to grunt with surprise.

As he tried once more to rise, the door crashed open, and a familiar face came through. Cromartie.

Cromartie quickly scanned the three bodies lying on the floor, and paused momentarily as he recognized Cameron, and then John. He cocked his head even as his HUD made a positive identification of Gil Macgaw. In the split second that his computerized brain tried to shift mission objectives back to the default—terminating John Connor, and attempted to override the logic circuit that declared that the previous mission had already been accomplished, Cameron and John simultaneously drew their guns and fired. Moving like the close-knit duo that they were, they coordinated their attacks, with John focusing his aim on Cromartie's gun-toting right hand while Cameron tried to take out the Terminator's eyes.

The resulting sparks made it impossible to see whether or not Cameron was successful, but John was—the machine pistol flew from Cromartie's hand. "Go!" he screamed at Cameron. "Take him! I'll hold him off!" He continued firing, emptying his clip into the robotic killer.

Cameron hesitated, torn between her natural instinct to protect John and her knowledge that it made sense for her to protect the more vulnerable Macgaw now that John had improved durability and combat abilities. "Go!" John screamed again as Cromartie regained his balance and began to advance.

Cameron nodded, yanking John into a sudden, bruising kiss before she snagged Macgaw's collar, tossed him over her shoulder, and punched a hole in the crumbly plaster of the far wall and exited.

John kept his eyes on Cromartie. Though there was significant damage to the ocular region, and red orbs glowed from within, it was clear that the robotic assassin had no problems targeting John. Devoid of its gun, it rushed forward, leaving John with no time to reload. A right-handed punch at John's face threatened to cave it in. Rage filling his senses, John met the charge, stepping in and slipping the punch by the barest of margins.

Shifting his head six inches to the left at the last second, John parried with his left hand across his body while simultaneously stepping in and firing a crisp right of his own at Cromartie's face. That right punch quickly shifted into a trap as John withrew his lead hand to immobilize Cromartie's arm and threw a wide, powerful left hook that snapped his head sideways. On the rebound he followed with a series of similarly interlocking strikes that targeted Cromartie's throat, nose, and rib cage in the space of a second.

If Cromartie had been a human, the aggressive response would have killed him, destroying his trachea, puncturing his lung, shattering his nose and breaking his arm.

If.

Instead, John belatedly felt the bones in his hands, broken from the impact of flesh against hard coltan steel, and then he felt even more intense pain as they knitted back together. That pain was then dwarfed by the pain in his cheek as Cromartie swung his immobilized arm and flung him face first into the corner of Macgaw's desk, scattering computers everywhere. As John tried to rise, he received a metal and machine-augmented boot to his sternum, causing fire to explode throughout his chest. His vision dimmed as he rolled away and fought to stand up. Trying to buy time, John began shuffling away awkwardly, attempting to stay just out of range without running away. As his vision began to clear, his thoughts grew more rational. He continued to evade, batting away Cromartie's punches and avoiding his attempts to reach out and grab him. It was a series of close escapes, designed to keep Cromartie's attention, and it worked.

John took a softer approach now, countering only with evasions and light throws designed to break Cromartie's balance, at one point sweeping off to the side and stomping down on the back of Cromartie's knee. As with a human, Cromartie went down. Unlike a human, however, Cromartie's knee failed to shatter into a series of bone shards and instead, the cyborg was able to stand up and nearly landed a backfist counter of his own, and then a left cross that overextended just a little bit—

—just enough for John to intercept it with his own left on the outside of the metal arm, immobilize it with his right hand on the artificial elbow joint just enough to clear a straight path for John's spear hand—a straight thrust into Cromartie's left eye. The force of his stiffened fingers darting forward shattered the metal and plexiglass construction, though the cost had been broken, bloodied fingers bent at a disgusting-looking angle. Unfortunately, Cromartie merely lowered his shoulder and bodychecked John across the room. John landed on his back, where he felt, underneath his black leather trench coat, something dig into his neck—his sword, so uncomfortable normally, yet forgotten in the heat of battle.

He had taken to wearing a sword underneath a black leather trenchcoat, adapting a thug-like look to keep the blade hidden from view. Most times, he strapped it in and forgot it—after all, who uses a sword in combat these days, unless you're facing an Immortal?

Now he remembered.

He got up.

* * *

The gunshots and the fights had not gone unnoticed—screams of students, faculty and admin staff filled the air even as Cameron walked calmly and purposefully through the mayhem, Macgaw thrown over her shoulder like a sack of dirty laundry. She met with Sarah and Derek rushing in, guns drawn.

"Where's John?" Sarah demanded as she grabbed Cameron's lapel with her free hand.

"Inside," Cameron responded. "He is holding off Cromartie while I get the professor to safety."

"You left him alone to face him?" Derek demanded incredulously.

"It's what John ordered me to do," she replied, meeting his gaze. She didn't flinch.

"He's alone in there, facing that thing!" Sarah cried.

"He will be fine," Cameron responded, a spark of pride in her voice. "John has the skills and durability to hold off a triple eight until I can return. If he is unable to destroy it by then, I will assist." She turned and continued in the direction of the exit.

Disbelievingly, Derek and Sarah watched her go, then turned as one to sprint toward the source of the sounds of battle being raged. It didn't take them long to find the fight: Cromartie came crashing through the wall right in front of them followed by a John Connor Derek dimly recognized—and one that Sarah had never seen.

This was not John, the petulant teenager, or John, the scared child in need of protection, or even John, a son bowed down by the knowledge of his destiny and responsibility.

This was John Connor the warrior, and he was rage focused into ice-hardened steel. His clothes were ripped and blood stained, blood dripped from a gash across his forehead surrounded by faint blue sparks, knuckles swollen to an unnatural size and black gaps from missing teeth clearly visible through lips pulled back in a snarl. Through his eyes—one swollen almost shut, rage shone through. If he noticed his mother and uncle standing down the hall, he didn't show it.

"Come on," he snarled. "That the best you can do?" he taunted.

Cromartie looked the worse for wear, though his face remained devoid of emotion. A gaping black hole sparked where his left eye had once been, his thigh bowed strangely inwards, throwing his gait off, and all the flesh had been torn away from his throat, revealing the metal underneath. Cromartie wasted no time in getting to his feet and throwing himself toward John again.

At what seemed like the last second, John stepped to the side and spun away. And as Cromartie rushed past, John drew his sword in one smooth movement and brought it down across the back of the exposed metal neck. Sarah flinched as the dreadful screech of metal tearing against metal reached her ears.

Cromartie staggered and went down, but he managed to push himself to his feet, where John was waiting. As the cyborg reached out, John swung again—a wide, looping blow aimed at the neck, which had been scored, but not completely severed.

The cyborg was ready. He casually blocked the blade with one hand, twisting it as he took it away. Grabbing the handle, he shoved John back several steps, and then he thrust. John's eyes popped open and he hissed with pain as the gnarled sword came out where his left kidney would be. Then they refocused.

"John!" Sarah cried out in horror, feet rooted to the spot.

John grasped Cromartie's sword arm with his left hand, using it as a handle to pull himself even closer to the cyborg. With his right hand, he grabbed the back of Cromartie's neck, and he leaned in.

"Fuck you," he whispered in his ear as his left hand reached inside his jacket, pulled out a long, military knife and shoved it into Cromartie's one remaining eye. As the cyborg began to struggle and attempt to pull back, John maintained his iron grip on his head and began carving a hole in the flesh above its CPU port. Still impaled, John grunted in pain as he tore the skin away and twisted off the port cover. Reaching in, he yanked out the chip, and abruptly, Cromartie's body froze.

With a final shove, John pushed the inert body away from him. A sickening squelching sound could be heard as the sword came out, doing as much damage coming out as it had going in. John fell to his knees, coughing out a spray of blood. As Sarah watched, Cameron came out of nowhere, rushing to him and pulling him gently to her chest.

"Take care of this, will you?" John asked as he put Cromartie's chip into her hand. She clenched her fist, mangling it into an unrecognizable mass, then put it in her pocket.

"Later," she said, kissing him gently. She looked at Sarah and Derek. "I told you he could handle Cromartie," she said.

"Handle him?" Derek spat. "Look at him! He's a mess!"

"It's nothing he hasn't done before. Nothing he doesn't do at least once a week when he trains with Duncan," she responded.

"What?!?!" Sarah demanded. "Duncan does this to him during training sessions??"

Straightening slightly, John looked up. "You train like you fight," he said simply.

"It happens less now," Cameron said, trying to reassure Sarah. "John is getting better, he can usually hold off Duncan long enough for the bell to ring."

"That's supposed to make me feel better? That my son gets stabbed and brutalized a little less often now?" Sarah spat.

"How else is he going to learn how to fight through the pain? He needed to get used to it," Cameron said.

John nodded, and Derek drew back unconsciously, stunned by the strength of will and the hardness that shone through his eyes. "What did you think I've been doing every afternoon for the past six months?" he asked sarcastically. "Help me up, please," he said to Cameron as he tried to push himself to his feet.

"Macgaw?" he asked.

"Unconscious. In the trunk," Cameron reported, looking him square in the eye. "I couldn't take the chance that he would go straight to the police."

John nodded, then looked at Cromartie's body on the ground. "We need to take this, too. Can you and Derek handle it? I can lean on Mom."

Ryerson Hall was one of the older buildings on campus, and as such, was connected to a series of steam tunnels that crisscrossed underground everywhere. Together, they headed into them now, John leaning on his mother as Derek and Cameron carried the body into the tunnels. Eventually, they emerged several blocks away above ground, where Cameron had moved the SUV. Opening the trunk, they saw a still groggy Macgaw.

"Do we move the prof up front with us, or what?" Derek asked.

"Just stuff him inside on top of the guy," John said. "Might be a good reality check for him to wake up and see the reality of war. Let's go. I need a shower." Taking his arm off of Sarah's shoulder, he moved toward the rear door, moving on his own steam, but clearly still in pain. Derek and Sarah looked at each other, and Cameron, and wordlessly, they, too got into the vehicle. Moments later, they were gone.

* * *

Two days later, the four of them headed back to California. They had holed up in the nearby town of Cicero, chosen because its residents knew better than to ever call the police about anything unusual and because John needed time to fully recover.

Sarah was still recovering from the shock of seeing how hard John could be when the situation warranted it. Not only during the fight, but afterwards. As they drove away, she looked in the mirror, seeing Gil Macgaw standing on the street, nervously trying to figure out what to do.

"See this?" John had said to Macgaw the night before right before they torched Cromartie's body. Macgaw swayed. It had taken four shots of Jack Daniels to get him to stop shaking, but the result was a somewhat lessened sense of balance.

"Did this thing give you any time to 'ascertain' its motives before it tried to kill you?" John asked, throwing the professor's words at him.

Macgaw shook his head, eyes wide open.

"There will be no negotiations," John told him. "Assuming we fail to stop Skynet from going online, it will begin its attack immediately. War starts the day after. There will be no negotiations, because you don't negotiate with Skynet. We have nothing it wants, except our lives. Understand?"

Macgaw nodded.

"So we need to be ready. You're lucky. All you need to do is what you've been doing. Study. Learn. Read. And then be ready to survive. Remember: April 19, 2011."

Another nod.

"Good. Just survive. Stay in Chicago. I'll come find you," John said as he got back in the SUV. Learning out the window, he added, "It wouldn't hurt for you to go to the gym once in a while."

Back in the present, Sarah asked, "Are we sure it was a good idea to leave him stranded here?

Derek responded. "Nah. Toughen him up. If he can't handle something like this, he'll be useless to the Resistance. So. We're done, right? Back to Cali?"

"Yeah, back there. But when we get back, we might need to do a trip to Japan. I need a new sword," John said.

* * *

Author's Notes

All details about the University of Chicago are accurate.

Those who have been following the human interest stories of Barack Obama preparing to head to the White House might recognize the name of the Med, short for the Medici. A favorite hangout for everyone on campus, known for its burgers, milkshakes, and its "garbage pizza," this place has probably hosted more Nobel Prize winners than any other restaurant outside of Sweden—not to mention plenty of typical college and university students and a soon-to-be president. (Though I suspect Obama probably prefers the slightly more sedate location a few blocks north.)

Gino's East also exists. Awesome pizza, the best (IMO) in the world.

The Fields Medal is highest honor a pure mathematician can receive. The MIT professor who takes an interest in Matt Damon in "Good Will Hunting" is probably the best known (albeit fictional) Fields Medalist.

The town of Cicero, slightly southwest of Chicago, is an infamously corrupt town that, as recently as 2001, was run by the remnants of Al Capone's organization. It is essentially one large red light district.

For any martial artists reading this, John's moves are loosely based on strategies and tactics used by practitioners of wing chun, escrima, JKD, and baguazhang.

Finally, I generally welcome, but don't solicit, reviews. However, this chapter contains the first extended action sequence I've written. So thoughts about that or the story in general are welcome. As you might have guessed, this series will be ongoing, with each chapter a longer self-contained story that takes place in a place outside of California.


	2. Japan

John sat in the dull gray boarding area of Narita International Airport, listening as a gentle, female voice spoke in Japanese for a while before switching to English. "Ladies and gentlemen," the polite voice said. "Boarding for flight 93 from Tokyo to Los Angeles will begin in approximately 10 minutes. We will begin with first class passengers and those who require extra time in boarding …"

John looked at Cameron. Reaching out tentatively, he stroked her arm, smiling on his lips. Cameron turned to look at him, a gentle expression on her face. After a while, she smiled back, peacefully, as if she had come to a new understanding.

John began to speak, only to stop as he looked at Cameron. Instead, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek, earning himself a shy, but genuine smile to grace her beautiful face. She leaned into his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him.

_

* * *

Six weeks earlier_

"Mom, I gotta go," John said as Sarah hugged him fiercely. "Come on, Duncan's waiting outside."

Reluctantly, Sarah relaxed her arms and stepped back. John looked at her, then at Derek standing slightly behind her. "Don't worry," his uncle said. "I'll look after her." Sarah narrowed her eyes as she looked first at her son, who nodded slightly at his uncle, and then at Derek, who bore her glare with the air of someone who had done so before.

As John opened the front door, a stiff breeze made his unbuttoned, ubiquitous black leather trench coat billow out behind him, obscuring the light momentarily as he scanned his surroundings out of habit. He descended the steps lightly, holding his hand out slightly without looking. Wordlessly, Cameron turned from her position right outside the front door and positioned herself next to him. She, too, looked ahead as she took his hand, and they headed to a waiting limo. They opened the door and stepped inside.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," John said as he settled himself and buckled his seatbelt.

"It's all right," Duncan replied seriously. "Mothers worry when their sons go on journeys. It's a nice kind of hassle to have." He looked out the window, seemingly lost in thought for a moment as the car made its way into traffic. Then his gaze refocused and he turned to Cameron. "Everything's arranged," he said as he handed her a sheaf of official-looking papers. "Those should get you through airport security without any problems."

"How'd you get these?" John asked curiously as he reviewed the documents.

"A while back, I did a favor for a young Ensign fresh out of Annapolis—the kind of favor that isn't really anything to somebody who's been around the block a few times, but means the world to a kid just starting out in life. Now he's an Admiral," Duncan replied, shrugging. "No big deal."

Later that evening, as first class cabin lights dimmed and the passengers around them either dozed off or turned their attention to the in-flight entertainment, Duncan turned to John. "I know three weeks seems like a long time, but I've taken the liberty of arranging a loose itinerary that lets you make the most of this trip.

Lowering his voice to match Duncan's, John asked, "What do you mean? I thought the swordmaking process will take the entire time?"

"It will," Duncan replied. "But you'll only need to be present for the first day, and then at the very end for the final polishing. In between, there's a lot you can do. I've arranged to have you train at the dojo a friend of mine. He's not one of us, but he's fine example of what you can achieve with just one lifetime.

"Great. More training." John grimaced.

Duncan laughed quietly. "Don't worry, you'll have some time to yourselves too. I'll be leaving you and Cameron to explore the country on your own. It'll do you good to learn more about the Japanese—if you're going to lead all of mankind, you'll need to become more multicultural. Plus, you and Cameron can explore the Akihabara district—see if you can pick up anything useful about the way the Japanese approach high tech development."

"On our own? What will you be doing?" Cameron asked.

"Eating," Duncan said, grinning and rubbing his hands together. "Tokyo is one of the finest eating destinations in the world, and I'm going to take advantage. You guys will be joining me for some dinners, and I'll be doing some training with you, so it's not like you won't see me at all."

"But I don't speak—or read—Japanese!" John protested.

"I do," Cameron said. "You'll just have to stick with me," she added smugly. John narrowed his eyes at her, aiming a mock glare before quickly pulling her in for a quick peck on the cheek and grinning.

"There you go," Duncan said. "It's all set." He flagged down a flight attendant. "Jack Daniels, on the rocks, please," he told her as she bowed once and walked away. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a quiet drink and get some sleep. You might want to consider doing the same thing."

* * *

John tried to not to fidget as the grizzled old man stared at him impassively. Though the swordmaker's face was deep red and heavily lined with wrinkles, the corded muscles in his exposed forearms and the rolling, smooth gait he demonstrated as he walked around John were evidence that this was a man of enormous power and will. Finally, the man stood in front of John and bowed. Remembering Duncan's instructions, John returned the bow, making sure to go lower than the old man had.

Turning to Macleod, he said slowly, "You have brought me a strong warrior, Duncan." His voice rasped harshly, but the tone was kind, and the accent an odd mix of Japanese and Scottish.

Duncan also bowed deeply. "Thank you, Okamura sensei."

"He is your student?" he asked.

"Yes. She is also," Duncan said, motioning to Cameron, who stood in between John and the door, alternately scanning the outside while paying attention to John.

"Oh? I thought you were only asking me to make one sword. Does she require one as well?" Okamura asked, peering at Cameron more closely. Cameron endured his gaze passively, returning the stare with the calm that comes from knowing that she will never lose a staring contest.

Cameron cocked her head even as Duncan's brow wrinkled in surprise. But it was John who replied. "Yes," he said, firmly but politely. "If you please, Cameron will also need her own blade."

"I see," Okamura said, as he scrutinized her. He walked around, looking at her for many long minutes as they waited. Finally, he spoke. "I like her," he began, looking at Duncan and John. A frown appeared. "But I cannot make a sword for her. She is not ready."

"But Okamura sensei," John responded immediately, only to clamp his mouth shut at a glance from Duncan.

Duncan walked forward. "Please excuse my student, Okamura san. My student can be rash sometimes, especially when it comes to someone he cares about. Might I ask you to explain what you mean? I assure you that Cameron's skill with a blade is exceptional."

Okamura looked at him gravely, and at Cameron. He addressed her. "I have no doubt about your skill with a blade. And I sense nobility in your character, so please understand that I mean no offense.

"Every sword I make is crafted to meld with the character of the person who will wield it. The blade's properties must complement the fighter's personality. John," he said as he motioned slightly toward the person in question, "is a warrior who does not enjoy fighting, but is coming to accept that this will be his fate. This surely shows in the way he fights, and I will create his blade to adapt to his style. Just as John feels the pressure of true responsibility, so will his katana be able to stand up to intense pressure and help him face insurmountable odds.

Duncan, John and Cameron accepted his gaze as he turned to each of them. "You do not understand what I am talking about," Okamura said resignedly. "But let me assure you that in Cameron's case, it is not a question of whether or not she is worthy. She is. But I cannot craft a blade for her personality, because she has not fully defined one for herself. Once she accepts who she is, she will be ready, but until then, I cannot help her. I am sorry," he added.

"Please excuse me for a moment, there is something I must attend to." And with that, Okamura nodded at each of them and headed toward his offices, shutting the door behind him.

"Not ready, my ass," muttered John. "Who does he think he is? He can't be the only swordmaker in Japan. Maybe he's the one who's not good enough to make a sword for Cameron." He paced around the workshop, anger evident in his darting, stomping steps.

"Okamura might not be the only swordmaker in Japan, but of the few who still make swords in the traditional manner, he is the best. He is the only swordmaker I know who is also an expert fencer," Duncan said. "He knows how to make a sword that will be actually used, and he knows what he's doing, trust me."

"Is it money? Maybe we could offer him more money," John asked.

Duncan grinned. "I doubt it. Okamura already charges $50,000 for each sword, and he generally has a waiting list of five years for those he deems worthy."

"What??!!! $50,000? For a sharp piece of steel?" John sputtered. "I don't have access to that kind of cash!"

"Relax," Duncan said. "I have this covered. And Cameron's too, if Okamura ever changes his mind."

"Duncan, no, we couldn't ask you for …"

"Hey. I can afford it, don't worry about it," Duncan said nonchalantly. "It's something I want to do. And Okamura's the best. He makes true fighting steels, not museum pieces. Collectors are always trying to get their hands on his swords, but it's hard. He judges potential buyers, and if he doesn't think you deserve it, he won't make you a sword, no matter how much you offer. And to keep the rejects from buying his work second hand, he forces everybody he accepts to sign an agreement that gives him first repurchase rights if you ever decide to sell your blade. And the two times I know of where that option came up, he wrote them a check on the spot."

"But this is outrageous! He has no reason to refuse Cameron!" John turned away angry, leaving Cameron to walk up to him.

"It's all right, John," she said soothingly, murmuring quietly into his ear. "It's sweet of you to defend me, but I don't really need a sword anyway, and you do. You should have the best blade possible. Don't let your feelings me get in the way of that."

John clenched his jaw.

"Please, John?"

"Fine," he ground out. "But I want to make it clear that I think this sucks."

"Believe me, I think we're all clear on that," Duncan remarked dryly.

Okamura chose that moment to return, entering the room briskly. "I apologize for that. Are we ready to proceed?" he asked.

"Yes," John replied stiffly. "I would be honored if you would craft a blade for me, sensei, and I agree to your terms and your opinion."

Okamura returned John's gaze evenly. "It is not a matter of terms or of my opinion, John. It is simply the way things are and the way things must be."

* * *

John felt awkward. He was wearing a thin, white cotton jacket and pants, with a belt tied around the middle. It appeared to be a standard karate uniform, and under different circumstances, he supposed he would have felt quite comfortable, despite the unfamiliar clothing.

Instead, he felt awkward and cold, as he made his way toward the base of a waterfall. Okamura, Duncan and Cameron waited at a nearby bridge, watching as he approached the cascade of decidedly freezing water. Okamura had only instructed him in the basics of the purification ritual, insisting that he would know what to do once he began.

"Your heart and your soul must be cleansed of all distractions and unimportant concerns," Okamura had insisted. "Only then can part of your soul go into your sword, and only then can your blade reflect your character."

Cameron had cocked her head confusedly, but said nothing. Duncan, on the other hand, simply nodded when John looked at him questioningly. Apparently, the older Immortal was in full agreement with Okamura's instructions.

Now, John steeled himself as he readied himself to step directly under the waterfall. He was already shivering and damp, but the shock of the cold as he immersed himself stole the breath from his lungs. Immediately, his thoughts went from, "I feel like an idiot doing this" to "COLD COLD COLD HOLY SHIT IT'S COLD GODDAMNIT COLD COLD."

Shaking uncontrollably, he stood as straight as he could even as frigid watered hammered down onto the top of his skull. He brought his hands together in front of his chest, and he closed his eyes. Okamura had told him that he would know when it was time to step back out, but he had a feeling that, as much as he'd like to dash out and find a nice warm fireplace, this wasn't the time.

He saw nothingness. He tried to breathe deeply, much as Duncan had taught him during meditation exercises. All was black, and his entire awareness focused on the cold pounding on top of his skull. But as time passed, he unknowingly began to stop shivering, and his focus began to move downwards, from his head to his neck, his chest, solar plexus. Finally, he found himself centered, concentration centered around his hara, his dantien—a spot several inches below his navel.

And in his mind's eye, he saw a rose colored light, hazy but beautiful. Warmth began to spread impossibly through his limbs. He saw machines, Terminators gathered to attack, yet he felt calm and strong. He saw his mother, his father, Derek flanking him, faces bared back in the snarl of battle, and he reached to quiet and reassure them. And then the visions faded.

And he saw Cameron. Cameron practicing her ballet, extending her body in impossibly beautiful lines, practically floating as she moved. As she twirled gracefully around, she slowed as she saw him, and she stopped. Her gentle smile filled his vision, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity—and love. He didn't want to stop gazing at her, but after a while, a sense of wellbeing filled him.

It was time to return. Back to the world, where—yes, he had responsibilities. He had duties to fulfill to his family and the world, and he had a terrible war yet to fight. But he also had Cameron waiting for him. He opened his eyes, the world seeming a little brighter, a little clearer. He let his hands drop to his side. And he stepped out from underneath the waterfall, walking calmly and surely back along the path he had taken, back toward Okamura and Duncan and Cam.

It seemed wrong to speak, and none of the three engaged him in conversation. Okamura nodded and gestured for John to walk first, toward the forge.

Inside, they allowed him to enter first. A towel and dry work clothes were waiting, and once he had changed, he opened the door and Okamura entered alone.

Outside, Cameron's eyes scanned her surroundings, darting nervously inside every once in a while. Duncan noticed and patted her shoulders as if to reassure her, though of what, he couldn't say. Still, she seemed to calm a little.

Inside, Okamura led John to a bench where several bars of distinct looking metal had been left. "This will be your soul," he said. "These metals all have differing properties. This is hard, to hold the sharpest of edges. This," he said, pointing at a different piece, "Will give your blade suppleness." As he continued, he pointed at differing pieces. "This will bind your blade to you, and this will enable it to endure the fires of countless battles. Pick them up."

John carried the pieces to the forge, where Okamura had him place them side by side in an elongated crucible, which was then placed directly into a roaring fire. His body, having acclimated itself to the cold of the waterfall, immediately began to sweat as they watched the metals turn red, the orange, then bright yellow-white. Okamura reached in with heavy tongs and removed the crucible, then quickly placed the first bar on an anvil. With his right hand, he grabbed a nearby hammer.

Though the taps appeared to be gentle, a ringing sound filled the room, and the heated metal soon flattened out. Not pausing, he took a second piece and placed it on top of the first and continued hammering. Before long, all five pieces had been hammered on top of each other, and he deftly used a different set of tongs to fold the flattened pile in half. Then it went back into the crucible and the fire.

John was startled when Okamura extended the handle of the hammer to him. "Now you," the old man said. He turned to take the reheated metal out of the fire. "Hammer. Think of nothing as you hammer. Think of the universe," he said, unhelpfully.

John began tapping the metal, trying to imitate the rhythm and technique Okamura had used. "Less thinking," Okamura said. John focused on his breathing as he continued to tap, and after a while, Okamura grunted. "Good. Now wait."

Back the metal went into the fire, and four more times, it came out and John went to work. Finally, Okamura took the metal and plunged it into a vat of lukewarm water, a cloud of steam hissing as the metal cooled. "Come," he said, taking off his protective apron. John did the same, then followed him to the door.

Outside, John was startled to see how high the sun had risen. At least a couple of hours had passed, and Duncan stood from his seated position on a nearby bench. Cameron merely turned. "Is it finished?"

"John's part in this is," Okamura replied. "The sword will know him now, and I will take things the rest of the way. You did well today," he told John.

John bowed in reply.

"Come back in three weeks," Okamura added, and John, Duncan and Cameron all bowed. As he turned, he said, "And Duncan? I know it has been a while since you had decent takoyaki and soba and the rest of it, but try not to overindulge." He grinned as he went back into the forge.

* * *

"You want to have ramen?" John asked dubiously as Duncan led the way to a street full of food stalls. The delicious scent of grilled meats, fried fritters, and other portable delicacies filled his nostrils, and he didn't see why Duncan seemed to think ramen would be better than these things.

"Trust me, John, you haven't had ramen. Real ramen's not that instant brick of noodles that you drop into boiling water, it's high art, and once you've tried it, you'll understand. When we get there, let me order for all of us. Cameron, I think you'll enjoy this," Duncan told her, his eyes bright with excitement.

He led them into a small, cramped eatery, barely the size of John's bedroom at home. A small wooden bar with stools in front of it beckoned, and inside, an incongruously chic-looking young woman with stylish hair bustled around as an older grandmotherly type looked on.

The grandmother turned and her eyes widened in surprise. John didn't understand the stream of rapid-fire Japanese that spilled forth from her lips, but there was no mistaking the bright smile of delight in her eyes when she recognized Duncan. She reached across the counter and grabbed Duncan's neck, pulling him into a tight hug, causing John and the woman's granddaughter to stare in surprise. Duncan blushed as the older woman pinched his cheek, eyes slightly downcast. The sparkling eyes turned toward John and Cameron, and Duncan made introductions, first in Japanese, then in English.

"John, Cameron, this is Naga-sama. Mrs. Naga is Sensei Okamura's mother," Duncan said. In a lower voice, he added, "They both know about Immortals, but if I'm not mistaken, Michiko over there does not," he said. "Mrs. Naga will show you what real ramen is all about," he said. John and Cameron nodded politely as Duncan turned to the older woman. She asked a quick question, which Duncan answered with a simple "Hai." _Yes._

"She seems to like you," John teased.

"Yes," coughed Duncan. "Well, aside from knowing me as one of her son's friends, she also has been feeding me for a long time."

"Why does she call you 'Piggy'?" Cameron asked innocently, and Duncan blushed even more. Michiko turned, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

Duncan coughed. "I, erm, might occasionally overorder when I come here. Hey, I don't get to eat here all that often," he said defensively.

John laughed, as did Michiko, and with that, the spell that had fallen over John since the waterfall ritual lifted and the rest of lunch turned to lighter topics. Nine bowls of ramen later (Duncan had ordered thirds, John had tacitly admitted to the glories of ramen after his second bowl, and a crowd had actually gathered around to gaze at the crazy American girl slurping down her fourth bowl), and the trio were ready to leave. Naga came out from behind the counter to hug Duncan fiercely again—not that great of an idea given how much Duncan had just eaten, then grabbed John and Cameron in affectionate hugs as well. She said something to the younger couple, to which Cameron, smiling hesitantly, replied in Japanese. John didn't understand a word, but the grandmother made a reply that made Duncan's jaw drop, then she elbowed John with a lascivious wink before patting Cameron on the shoulder and heading back behind the counter.

As they walked away, John asked, "What was that all about?"

Cameron looked at him, smiling. "Naga-sama told us we should come back often because her food makes young people strong. I told her that I hoped so, and that it was very important to me that you be strong. Then she said she was confident that you would be strong enough for me tonight and that afterwards, she wouldn't mind testing your strength as well."

John's eyes bugged out, and his sudden shout of laughter caused the people around them to look up, startled. He ignored them, shaking his head ruefully and wrapping his arm around Cam as they continued to walk. "That's just wrong on multiple levels," he said, chuckling softly.

* * *

As the days passed, John and Cameron crisscrossed Japan, sometimes with Duncan, sometimes without. John had trained at several small dojos, pleased that in most cases, he matched up well against the schools' senior students. The one exception was at a judo school that specialized in neiwaza—groundfighting. It was a range Duncan had never trained with him, explaining "Groundfighting isn't really a practical option for the real world, especially for you. It's stupid to try to grapple with someone who probably has a couple blades on him, and no amount of leverage or technique is going to enable you to armbar a Terminator. Still, it's good for toughening your body, and it'll teach you a new way of thinking of combat."

John had walked away with a healthier respect for all grapplers, though he definitely saw Duncan's point. What good is a choke hold on a Terminator who doesn't need to breathe anyway?

Though tentative at first, John and Cam plunged enthusiastically into exploring Japan. They watched Noh plays and _owarai_, puzzled at the strange youths in Harajuku, played pachinko and DDR, even took classes in ikebana and chanoyu. Cameron won praise from instructors in the latter two traditional arts, as the senseis were often astounded at her quiet, focused concentration.

As they continued their stay in Tokyo, John and Cameron decided to explore Akihabara. Though the tiny electronics stores could offer nothing comparable to the level of sophisticated technology the two of them had seen, John still went dashing from one cramped stall to another. In one, he found a processor that was supposed to still be in development, while in another, he found a tiny pinhole camera with resolution significantly beyond what was supposed to be possible. As he gleefully looked at all the toys, he let himself be a normal teenager and conjured up James Bond-ian fantasies involving clever gadgets and fast cars. Lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice Cameron becoming gradually more agitated.

Walking down the street, he stopped to look at a monitor in the display window of a mammoth-sized Sofmap store. On screen, Honda's latest generation ASIMO machine was walking up and down stairs, shaking the presenter's hand, playing "Twinkle, Twinkle" on the violin. "Hey Cam," he said, pointing at the screen. "Check it out, it's, like, one of your ancestors!"

Getting no reply, he looked at her. "Cam?"

"Is that what you think of me?" she whispered, tears in her eyes.

"Huh? What?"

"After all this, am I just a fancy machine to you?"

"Of course not, Cam! You know better than that."

"Do I? What am I, John? I'm not a machine," she said angrily, not noticing the tears welling in her eyes. "I'm not a Terminator—I don't kill people anymore."

"I know!" protested John.

"But I'm not human either!" she said desperately. "Okamura refused to make a sword for me because he could sense it, somehow. I'm not human, I'm not machine, what am I? Tell me what I am?"

John looked at her helplessly. "Does it matter? Does it matter that we have a label for 'what' you are? You're … you're just 'Cameron'! Maybe you're one of a kind, but so what? Is that so bad?"

"I just want to know where I belong," Cam said helplessly.

"You belong wherever you want to belong," he replied, looking into her eyes intently. "You make your own choice, your own destiny, just like anyone else in this world. I'd like to think that you choose to be next to me, with me, but in the end, the choice is yours.

"So only you can answer your own question, Cam. Tell me. What are you? Where would you like to belong?"

She looked at him helplessly.

"You know what? It doesn't really matter, in the end. It isn't what you are that matters, it's what you choose to do. We're not defined by our own labels, that's for the convenience of other people. We are our own choices. Only you can decide where you belong, but I can tell you that you're here, right now, because of choices you made. I didn't order you to come with me to Japan, to stay by my side, and I hope you always knew you had the choice to leave.

"You want me to leave you?" Cameron asked, voice blank, but a hurt look in her eyes.

"No! I want you with me, always—and … and in all ways," John said. "But I want that only if that's what you decide to do, of your own free will."

"I'm not sure I understand," Cameron said. After a pause, she added, "I'm sorry."

His gaze softened as he took cupped her face tenderly. "You don't need to apologize, Cam. But you should take some time and think about what you want, what makes you happy, OK? That's what I want for you.

"OK, well come on, we have some eating to do," John said, pressing a kiss into her cheek and her eyelids. "I'm hungry."

* * *

The next day, John and Cam hopped onto a train and headed back to Okamura's workshop. Okamura was waiting, and Duncan was next to him. "This is an important occasion," Duncan said, smiling. "I think you're going to remember this day, John."

Okamura stepped forward, his grip strong and gentle. "Come," he said, leading John into a modern-looking building several hundred yards away from the forge where the swordmaking process had begun.

Inside, the rooms were a masterful blend of old and new. Bright, soft lighting gave the interior rooms a warm glow. The halls were lined with plush carpets, but the rooms were laid out with finely woven tatami mats. Modern, black-and-white art photos were framed on the walls outside, while inside the room Okamura entered, calligraphy scrolls hung from walls. Somewhere, John heard the electronic trill of an office phone.

And on a clean, but unvarnished table made of black wood sat a sword and a flat, shallow dish filled with a thin, gray liquid. As John gazed upon the newly made sword, he was startled to realize that he felt like he knew it. "May I?" he asked, reaching his hand toward the straight, elegant handle but looking at the older man.

Okamura shook his head. "Not yet. It is not done. There is one last thing," he said. "This is polishing compound," he told John, motioning toward the dish. "It is left to you to complete the polishing. Take your finger and dip it in the dish. Then, gently wipe it down the edge of the blade."

As John did so, the blade felt warm under his fingertip. He looked over and took the clean white rag that Okamura offered. Gently, he wiped off the remnants of the fine grit and water left on the sword with it. "Is that it?" he asked.

Okamura nodded, pointing out the nearby sheath. "Pick it up. See how it feels," he said.

As John picked up his new sword, he was struck by the sense of rightness. Though it was lighter than the heavier broadsword he had destroyed in Chicago, it also felt more substantial. As he moved, it felt … easy, responsive. Unconsciously, he smiled, and Okamura beamed. "That's the expression I wanted to see. It means we were successful in creating a sword for you."

Heart filled with emotion, John looked at the old man. There were no words. Instead, he bowed deeply. "Thank you," he said simply.

"Come," Okamura said. "Let's show Duncan. And Cameron."

Duncan and Cameron were waiting in an adjoining room—also lined with tatami mats, it was larger, and the walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It was a training studio. "How does it feel?" Duncan asked knowingly.

"It feels … right," John said, pulling the sword out. Cameron came to take a closer look.

"May I hold it?" she asked, and without hesitation, John handed it to her and stepped back, even as Okamura and Duncan stepped forward, hands outstretched. The two older men looked at each other, then Duncan shrugged and let his hand drop. Okamura followed Duncan's lead and stepped back. They turned to look.

Cameron brought the body of the sword close to her eyes, gazing into its polished surface, a look of fascination appearing unbidden on her face. Then taking the sword in a firmer grip, she stepped to the side to give herself some space and glided into a ready stance. Slowly, experimentally, she began to execute a kata, the form beginning with basic attacks and parries. As she glided across the mats, she smiled—a wide, glowing smile full of wonder. Partway through, she stopped, looking at John, who nodded.

"I know, right?" John said, grinning.

Okamura approached Cameron. "Could you … could you do the entire kata for me?" he asked.

Cameron nodded. Again, she repeated the form, starting with basic attacks and defenses, then moving into a flowing, fluid progression of advances, lunges, evasions, twirling the sword in an intricate pattern that crescendoed into a climactic moves, then ended suddenly into stillness.

John looked at Duncan and Okamura uncertainly, troubled by the looks on their faces. Cameron looked only at John, a smile on her face. Then it stilled, and she walked toward him. In a subdued voice, she said, "It is a … beautiful … sword, John." She extended the sword back to him, hilt first.

John reached for the handle, only to be stopped by Okamura's extended hand. He looked at Cameron. "I made this sword for John," he told her.

"I know," she responded.

"It was made to be his partner," he elaborated. "Not just an object, but a part of him. Strength, comfort, and peace."

She cocked her head.

"But it matches you as well as I have ever seen a sword match its owner," he said. "I saw John wield it just minutes ago, but it looks as right in your hands as it did in his."

He turned to John. "Ordinarily, it would be incredibly rude of me to ask you to tell me this, but this is a highly unusual situation," he said. "In the waterfall, before you came out. What did you see? What did you feel?"

Blushing, John replied. "I saw Cameron. And I felt at peace. Strong, calm, ready."

Duncan looked at John, surprised. "When Okamura-san made me a sword," he offered, "I saw the Highlands."

"And before I made my blade, I saw the peach orchards where I used to play," Okamura said. He turned to John. "You were supposed to see the place where things all began for you. The place where you return when you need to rest and restore yourself. Not a person."

John shrugged. "I'm sorry, Mr. Okamura. I saw Cameron, and I felt at peace. I don't know what else to tell you."

"That's who I am," Cameron said, wonder across her face, as she looked up, shifting her gaze from Okamura to Duncan and resting on John. "I'm Cameron. I'm your partner. I'm the one you should be turning to for peace. That's why the sword felt right in my hands. It's just like me."

Okamura looked at her for a while. "Come," he said. "Come into my office."

"Why?" Duncan asked.

"Because I need a drink, and I have an excellent 30-year-old Balvenie in there," he replied.

As they walked into the office, he went to a simple, carved table. On it sat a silver tray with several glasses and several bottles. Okamura arranged four glasses and poured a large measure of reddish, amber liquid in each. "Please," he said, gesturing to them and then to the glasses. He took one himself.

He raised his glass. "To Cameron. And her new blade," he said. "I think we all agree that it would be wrong for any of us--including John--to ask Cameron to give up a blade that is so obviously a perfect match for her." He looked at Cameron, pleased. "It appears I was able to make you a sword after all." And he took a healthy slug of scotch, and the three followed suit.

"And now, to John," Okamura said. "Who tomorrow, will again undergo the purification ritual so I can make him yet another sword." And again they drank.

Later, as they sat on the couch and chairs in his office, Okamura looked at John. "You know," he slurred, slightly inebriated as he swirled his fifth glass. "It's just as well that you get another turn at the forge. You're not bad at this. And if you ever find yourself looking for something to do in life, you might consider coming back and learning more about swords. It seems you have a gift with metals.

_

* * *

Present day_

"Did you enjoy your visit?" John asked.

"Yes," Cameron nodded, confidently. "I'm glad I chose to come with you. I'm glad I chose to stay with you. But I would like to go home now."

"Well, all right then," he said. "Duncan!" he called. "Come on, we're about to board." And the three gathered their belongings and headed back to the gate.

* * *

Author's Notes:

The Japanese swordmaking process described here is a bit exaggerated for dramatic license (obviously)

I have never been to Japan, so my descriptions of the country are probably inaccurate; I hope my imagination wasn't too far off. Ikebana is the Japanese art of flower arranging. Chanoyu is the Japanese tea ceremony experience. Both are considered highly refined traditional arts. I have seen them done, but wouldn't presume to begin to do them justice in a descriptive sense

Next time: They're back in the U.S., and Amanda pops up. So do a few other Immortals, and one of them wants John's head. Time to test out that new sword ...


End file.
